


Mornings

by LovelyMelody



Series: Time of Day [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Marvel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 04:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16885437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyMelody/pseuds/LovelyMelody
Summary: AU! Bucky Barnes loves mornings because it’s the only time of day he doesn’t have to share you with the world.





	Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this on a whim and the ending is very much open to your imagination so… I hope you enjoy it and create an ending you desire <3  
> EDIT: There is a sequel, but really, this fic can be read as a stand-alone fic.

Bucky liked to wake up early in the mornings, liked to be the first one out of bed every day because it gave him a chance to see you without anyone interrupting or meddling. It gave him a chance to watch you, loving the way the sun peeked in through the shades casting an ethereal glow around you as you danced around the kitchen, prepping and cooking, a smile playing on your lips every time you looked up from your task to see him sitting on the stool watching you.

You always seemed to enjoy his company, asking him questions in that beautiful voice of yours about things you didn’t know about him and wanted to know (which was always ridiculous because you knew everything about him, just like he knew everything about you) or things you had noticed about him the day before when he wasn’t by your side. He loved those questions the most because it reminded him that even though he’s not always with you, you’re always thinking about him—worrying about him. And that, that always makes his heart pound against his ribcage as his veins fill with warmth and love injected by you and only you.

Sometimes, he’d help you make breakfast (those were the mornings where he craved more from you, needs to feel you close to him and not just see you—it was never enough, but sometimes the need became unbearable). He danced around you in hopes of not getting in your way, but he did anyway, no matter how much he tried not to. And then you’d laugh, your laughter echoing in his mind and heart, engraving the sound into his memory bank for the days that he needed to hear it (he always needs to hear it) and you weren’t there and he just missed you. “I’m sorry, doll.” He’d grin sheepishly and you’d punch him on his shoulder gently, reassuring him it’s okay before giving him a different and easier task, like pouring out juice for the others and turning on the coffee machine.

The first plate of breakfast was always for him. You always made sure to put the heaviest serving of maple syrup because you knew how much he liked the way his pancakes soaked up the sweet syrup. It always made him smile when he dug in and you’d sit next to him with your own plate and a cup of coffee. Every morning he’d wondered if your lips tasted like maple syrup as he watched you eat your pancakes or if they tasted like hazelnut, your favorite coffee creamer.

“What?” you would ask, the rim of your mug hovering over your lips as you look at him with a smile. And he’d know you were smiling because the corner of your eyes would crinkle in the most adorable way that made him want to reach over and just kiss you.

“Nothing, you just always look like you’re enjoying all of that.”

“What are you trying to insinuate?” you gasped in mock offense, placing a hand over your chest and he’d laugh and you’d follow, your laughter harmonizing together to create a beautiful sound that Bucky is sure is still one of his favorite songs.

And then the mornings would end for him and you’d no longer belong to just him. Steve would step into the kitchen, with his hair wet and a towel wrapped around his neck, smiling when he’d hear your laughter and would kiss those cheeks that Bucky wanted to reach out and caress. Your attention would then divert between Steve and Bucky, and he would be forced to share your attention with someone else. It always killed him whenever he knew it wasn’t just him in your heart, but his best friend too. And finally, Sam would walk into the kitchen, demanding jokingly where his plate was when he would see the three of you eating. You’d roll your eyes and say:

“For someone who doesn’t live here, you do spend a lot of time over.”

Sam would then laugh, “I’m just waiting for the invitation.”

“Dream on, buddy,” you’d snort, making Steve and Bucky laugh before you’d tell him where you hid his plate.

Suddenly, it was no longer just Steve and Bucky you’d pay attention to, but Sam as well. Bucky could never get used to that. If he hadn’t gotten used to it when you were children, he definitely never got used to it as an adult. From the moment you were born, it was you and him taking on the world. Then he befriended Steve and it became the three of you. Later on in high-school, Sam joined—and although Bucky had been happy to have new friends, he hated having to share you. But somewhere along the way, the mornings became his: picking you up from your home to go to school before meeting up with the others, and weekend morning cartoons (which you both continued doing as adults), and breakfasts together. The mornings were his. But it became too much for Bucky, knowing that he could never truly have you anymore. Those days of it just being the two of you were gone and erased with time.

So Bucky decided to end those mornings, choosing to find somewhere else to spend them—someone else to spend them with. It wasn’t easy in the beginning (nothing ever is). He remembers coming home and seeing you were gone for the day, Steve and Sam no longer around either, but he’d always find his plate waiting in it’s usual place, the pancakes and dollop of syrup waiting and calling his name. With a heavy heart, he’d walk away from it, leaving them to grow colder, just like he began to feel every time he knew you didn’t belong to just him.

You had started leaving notes with his breakfast plate, written with threats that made him chuckle and other times with words of worry that made his throat close and heart clench. But he always left them untouched, even if he wanted to collect those notes and put them on display for the world to see. And just like always, he’d leave them sitting there until you came home and threw them out yourself. He’d caught you doing it once and the look on your face made him feel guiltier than the time he threw up in your favorite hat.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized.

And those eyes that would brighten whenever you looked at him and that smile that would play on your lips were missing, replaced by unresponsiveness and wariness, along with a tight-lipped smile. “It’s okay,” you whispered, leaving him standing alone in the cold evening of the living room as you went off to play a new video game Sam and Steve had brought home.

He continued to do it and the waiting plates eventually stopped. When he came home in the afternoons or evenings, there was no plate waiting for him, only the empty cold that came along with the empty mornings without you. And soon, Bucky found himself moving out and in with his girlfriend. She was one of his one-night stands he had after he grew tired of jumping from girl to girl and waking up in different places. He thought she was nice and decided to ask her out on a date, to which she had said yes–the two clicking instantly. Even so, there was still something stopping him from being completely committed to her. She was gorgeous, he wasn’t an idiot, but something about her wasn’t you and it made his heart hurt. However, It was something he had to do, even though he loved you and would only love you. With her, he didn’t have to worry about sharing her with anyone–didn’t only have her in the mornings.

After a few months of dating, she had been the one to ask him to move in with her and he had accepted. He spent most his mornings there anywhere, it was time to make it official. When he mentioned it to you and Steve, Sam had been there and he jumped at the opportunity to take the extra room. But you and Steve were more apprehensive, questioning his choice.

“Isn’t it too soon, Buck?” Steve had asked.

“We hardly ever see you anymore, Bucky,” you had been the hardest to face, your voice sounded meek and mild, restraining from something and for a moment he allowed himself to be curious, allowed his imagination to run wild and come up with answers as to why you sounded that way. “Is that what you want?”

He couldn’t look you in the eye when he answered, fearing that whatever he saw in them would change his mind, “Yes.”

That’s when he believed his mornings with you were truly done and over with, but he was wrong. He was so wrong.

A year later and it’s the morning of his wedding day (something he had run in to head on because he needed to get over you and tying the knot with his girlfriend seemed like the perfect solution). He never realized how much of an idiot he was until now, seeing you in the same place he used to see you every morning, realizing this wedding is happening too fast (everything happened too fast). Steve had invited him to spend the night at his old apartment, saying it was for old times sake and reminding him of that old tradition of the bride and groom needing to sleep apart the night before.

And you’re still standing in the same place he remembers seeing you once upon a time, the memory engraved in his mind like a permanent tattoo that is occasionally being retouched by the sudden spark of his need to see you whether it was the afternoon, evening, or night. But it’s morning now and you’re not dancing, you’re only prepping and cooking. You smile at him and fuck how he wishes that his heart didn’t skip a beat when your eyes catch his under the curtain of your lashes.

You don’t make conversation, you don’t ask him the things you used to ask, instead you cook in silence, occasionally looking up at him and flashing him a smile. The smell of chocolate chip pancakes and maple syrup beginning to cling to his clothes and it doesn’t matter to him, he hopes the smell lingers on his shirts for days as a reminder that this morning happened and it wasn’t just a figment of his imagination.

“Bucky,” you call his name, handing him a plate full of his favorite pancakes soaked in syrup, his favorite way to have them. “Enjoy,” you wink at him, a smile playing on your lips and he questions if Steve told you about how his soon-to-be wife hated his unhealthy love for pancakes and syrup.

Just like always, you take the seat next to him and he notices that you’re not drinking coffee, but tea. He can’t help but wonder when you made the transition. You seem to notice his curiosity and he knows you’re smiling behind the rim of your mug, your eyes still crinkle the same way and he still gets the urge to just cup your cheeks in his hands and kiss you.

“After you moved out, Natasha brought me some earl grey from her business trip to London and I fell in love.” You tip the mug in his direction, “Want some?” He should say no, but he doesn’t. He takes the mug from you, his fingers brushing against your warm hand and he does his best to retrain the shivers he feels crawling up his back from the simple touch. You’re watching him as he tastes the tea, your eyes locked on one another, neither looking away until he finishes the last drop of the tea. And he finally gets a taste of what your lips taste, sweet and bitter, a strange combination that can only belong to you.

“It’s good.” He smirks when he hands you the mug and you pout when you see it’s empty.

“You asshole! I can’t believe you finished it,” you laugh and he laughs and god this is all so familiar.

Yet, the next step of ending the morning never comes. Steve doesn’t walk into the kitchen and doesn’t kiss your cheek like he used to and Sam doesn’t follow, demanding for his plate. It’s really just the two of you this morning and it scares him for some reason, knowing that for once he has you all to himself. All he has to do is reach for your hand and hold it, tell you how much he loves you and cares for you. All he has to do is apologize for those mornings he neglected to spend with you, ignoring your breakfast that he loves so much. That’s all he has to do and you’d—

“It’s really over isn’t it,” he hears you say, pulling him out of his reverie. You’re staring down at the empty mug with a smile he doesn’t recognize. The sun’s rays are peaking in through the curtains of the kitchen, casting a soft glow in the kitchen and making you seem just as beautiful as he remembers.

“What is?” he’s confused, not sure what you’re talking about. He has a feeling he knows and that makes his heart beat wildly against his chest, but he has to repress that part of him. Hoping will only get him nowhere. His morning is going to end soon, just like they always do with you.

You giggle softly, the sound sounding so pure and raw in his ears that when you look up and he sees your beautiful eyes wide and matching the sound of your voice, it makes his breath catch in his throat—his breathing halting for a moment. “Our mornings. They’re over now aren’t they?”

“What?” That’s all he can manage to breathe out, his heart still beating rapidly in his chest that he believes the sound is making him hear things incorrectly. But no, he had heard you correctly. You had said ‘our mornings’ and fuck how stupid could he have been? How stupid could he have been to not notice that they weren’t just his mornings with you, but your mornings together? This whole time he had only cared about himself and never realized how you felt. The plates that you left for him weren’t just an obligatory thing, it was a way for you to remember your mornings together and he had made you give that up–give him up. He had destroyed it.

Bucky wants to say something, anything—he wants to apologize and beg for forgiveness, but he can’t. The words won’t form and he hates himself for it, hates himself for hurting you and only thinking about himself.

“We need to help you get ready, Bucky,” you push yourself away from the table, smiling at him and that’s when he notices Steve and Sam in the kitchen. There’s a sympathetic look in their eyes as they watch a new scene happening between you and Bucky. “We can’t let you be late to your wedding, can we?”

Are your mornings together really over? Is this really the end?


End file.
